To Love and Curse the Son of None
by gothiktenkasen
Summary: I stared long and hard at his hand, exactly where his ring finger should have been but for God's eternal love, I could not fear him. AltairOC
1. Lessons

Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own Assassin's Creed. Because if I did, Altaïr would be serving me warm cookies in an apron. In only an apron.

Rating: M for Mature

Content: Violence, obviously, language and some adult situations.

Summary: I stared long and hard at his hand, exactly where his ring finger should have been but for God's eternal love I could not fear him. AltaïrOC

A/N: I didn't like my original story. Something felt, well, off about it. So I've scrapped it and started over. I want to flesh Nazirah out a little more and make the chapters a little longer, so here I go.

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To Love and Curse the Son of None

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Chapter 1: Lessons

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I was nine when my mother died of fever. I remember bits and pieces of her; a smile, her perfume, the scars on her hands. She was not from a wealthy family but my father married her anyway, because he loved her. She told him stories every night and when I was born, she told them to me as well. I was supposed to be a boy; at least that's what my father's older sister constantly reminded me. Since I was supposed to be born a boy, I asked my father to teach me things he would teach a son. My Aunt Khaanam was shocked when he complied. I believe my Uncle Tahal laughed. I was four after all; what was there not to laugh at?

"Teach me to be a boy," I demanded to my father at the pertinent age of four. He had been in the garden with my mother, resting on a cushioned palanquin. My parents had raised their eyebrows and glanced at one another,

"Why such a request, Nazirah?" My mother's black eyes were kind when she humored me,

"Because I was supposed to be a boy!" I had stamped my foot, ever the child,

"Who told you that?" Father asked. I told them that it had been Aunt Khaanam before saying,

"And Malik and Kaddar said they wouldn't play with me until I can do boy things,"

Of course, Malik and Kaddar probably said that to make me go away. Two boys, eight and six, wouldn't play with a four year old girl. I was too slow, too weak to keep up. Even when I would run to catch up with them, I would trip and fall on my dresses and skirts. But Malik would always come back, Kaddar trailing awkwardly behind him because both boys were uncomfortable with my crying. Malik would begrudgingly carry me on his back to his father's room in the servants' quarters and dress my scrapes and cuts while Kaddar asked me questions to distract me from the stinging pain. I was proud when I told them that my father was going to teach me to do boy things. Kaddar was the first to exclaim his disagreement,

"Girls can't learn to do boy things!"

"Why not?" I demanded,

"Because!" He snapped, impudent,

"Because what?"

"Because they're girls!" I kicked him in the shin for that,

"Girls can do things too!" I shouted at them before running back to my mother. Malik and Kaddar's father worked as the captain of my family's guard. We were not royalty, but my father controlled the trade routes out of Jerusalem to Acre, Damascus and Masyaf. Merchants had to bring their goods before my father to inspect and approve of before they were taken to the marketplace. Many men wished to be in charge in my father's position so guards were a necessity. After my father agreed to teach me the things men knew, I pestered the guards to show me their weapons. My mother often rescued them from me,

"Nazirah," She would begin, gentle but firm, her hands on my small shoulders, "Do not bother the guards. They must do their job,"

"But they have swords and knives," I whined, "If I learn to be a boy, shouldn't I learn of their blades?"

I was nine when my mother died of fever. Perhaps I remember more than bits and pieces of her. After she and my father agreed upon my tutelage to boyhood, she told me that she would teach me things, things that would make me a person. I had frowned, utterly confused,

"But I am a person, Ummi," I insisted, "Just like you and Abbi," She simply smiled and shook her head and dressed us both in rags. Taking my hand, she snuck us out into the streets of Jerusalem. I was awed by the height of the other buildings, the different people, the smells of the market and the babble of Arabic, Hebrew and, later I would learn, Frankish. Although I didn't know it then, the tall men with pale, pale skin and chainmail and robes of white and red were Templar. Soldiers marched along, women stood close together holding baskets and gossiping. We went to the slums and my mother showed me what it meant to be a person.

She handed beggars and other poor people golden dinars and offered to help an old woman with her baskets. I tottered after her. When we returned home, I was washed and clothed in loose pants and a tunic, my hair brushed out and hidden by a turban, just like Abbi's. That same day, I began to learn my letters. My father took me to his library and showed me books and maps and scrolls. He introduced me to Aarif, a scholar and his accountant,

"Aarif will also teach you," Abbi had informed me,

"Will he show me how to wield a sword?" I asked. They both laughed,

"I will show you how to wield numbers," Aarif promised me. For the days and months to follow, Aarif and my father taught me reading, writing and arithmetic. They told me the importance of money, what it meant to trade goods and how tax affected the people. In turn, my mother told me stories, showed me what plants not to put in my mouth and how to give bread and water in the ghettos of Jerusalem. Between these odd lessons, I played with Malik and Kaddar. Well, it was more like Malik watched Kaddar and I played and insured that neither one of us got into much trouble.

At dusk, I would retell the stories my mother told me the night before, reciting them as best I could for Malik and Kaddar. Sometimes I would finish, sometimes I would not but the times I did not soon grew few and far between. I listened harder to Ummi when she would hold me and reiterate poems and legends and histories of kings and great wars. Malik and Kaddar seemed to like those stories the best; after all, they were boys.

Aunt Khaanam, who sometimes came to stay with us, did not approve of my lessons in boyhood but she could not say anything as a guest in her brother's house. Uncle Tahal, who also stayed with us sometimes, laughed and eagerly asked me what I had learned so far. I would solemnly recount my numbers and tales of epic, bloody battles. When I asked him how to use a knife, he easily complied,

"I always wanted a nephew," He told me in secret, "But a niece who wants to learn like a boy is fine too," He gave me an ivory handled blade I hid from my parents. I would take it out late at night and peer at the inscriptions on the silver metal and wonder at the smooth and intricate carvings on the handle. I showed Malik and Kaddar with unbridled pride,

"Look," I boasted, "See how it shines?" Kaddar eyed it with a newfound respect for me. Malik merely shrugged,

"My father has knives deadlier than that,"

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_Ummi _and _Abbi_ mean "mom" and "dad" respectively.

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	2. Leaving

Disclaimer: Ah, yeah, my lawyer thinks I don't stand a chance.

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To Love and Curse the Son of None

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Chapter 2: Leaving

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I was six when Malik and Kaddar's father died. I had cried since they would not. They held my hands and I hugged them both, wetting their shoulders. I feared that with no father, they would be turned onto the streets to fend for themselves. I couldn't possibly let that happen. Before my parents could speak, I had thrown myself at their feet,

"Please don't send them out!" I cried, "They can stay in my room! They can have my bed! Please, Abbi! Ummi, tell him!" They exchanged that same knowing glance they always shared and promised me that they wouldn't send Malik and Kaddar away. But they refused to let the boys stay in my room,

"They have their own room," Abbi said firmly,

"But-"

"Nazirah, do you think they wish to stay in a little girl's room?" Ummi asked me. I crossed my arms and huffed and pouted but finally agreed. Two boys, ten and eight, wouldn't want to live in the same room as a six year old girl. Looking back, I'm surprised at how well they handled their father's death. I would have been in pieces if my parents died. I was a mess when Ummi passed away, but Yusra was there, so I was not alone.

Yusra was my mother's maid, employed when I was five when Ummi began to feel weak. She was older, in her late forties with gray temples and dark brown hair. Her laugh lines were deep enough to be traced and her skin was golden bronze. I didn't recognize it until I was older, but Aarif and Yusra shared a flirtatious relationship. I always thought they would be a good match. Yusra was impressed with my numbers and letters; therefore she was also impressed with Aarif. She easily submerged herself in our lives, chiding Malik and Kaddar for not eating enough although they ate plenty and nagging at me to wear my dresses and skirts.

She soon came with me to the poverty stricken districts instead of Ummi, who more often than not was confined to bed. I dragged Malik and Kaddar with me to the gardens to pick flowers for her, telling Kaddar to stand watch and making Malik reach up for the blossoms too high for me to grab. Sometimes they came with me to sit with Ummi. They didn't remember their own mother and I whispered to them that I would share mine with them. I loved them both and I threw a temperamental fit when they announced that a man had come to take them from me one day,

"Why are you leaving me?" I demanded. Malik rolled his eyes but Kaddar had the decency to look guilty,

"We're sorry, Nazirah,"

"_You're_ sorry," Malik corrected his younger brother, "Al Mualim says that if we wait any longer, I'll be too old,"

"Too old for what?" I cried,

"That's a secret," He replied smugly. I had balled my tiny hands into fists, angry frustrated tears springing to my eyes. At the age of six, I had no idea how to verbalize the feelings of betrayal and abandonment,

"Well, you better come back!" I ordered, giving Malik a good kick in the shins. He winced,

"Sure, Nazirah," he finally submitted, "Later," and I hugged them one last time and watched them sit behind an older man with a great beard on a horse. I watched them ride off, Malik hesitantly glancing over his shoulder while Kaddar turned and waved goodbye.

They didn't come back for three years.

I became older, passing the days with my studies, progressing to learning the old histories and the politics of trade and religion. Abbi taught me the feel of different fabrics, how to tell when something was real or cheap. Yusra took me to the kitchens, instructing me in the art of spices; I was never too good at it though. Aunt Khaanam sent me gifts of perfumes and dolls and kohl to outline my eyes with. She sent pretty clothes and mirrors so polished they reflected my candle's flame like sunlight. All this was in hopes to get me to abandon my interests in male knowledge, to feminize me. It worked, but not as well as she hoped.

I ignored potential suitors, as I was too busy learning. I answered the bell five times a day to pray towards Mecca. I devoured books like a starving man and drank in the words of my father as one dying of thirst. As I aged, my father let me sit with him when he met with merchants, allowing me to look at their goods. There were crates filled with straw, harboring tiny alabaster jars of sweet oils and balms; pearls and jewels glimmering with every color of God's love. And silks- bolts and bolts of the most beautiful silks,

"Nazirah, trust is like this fine silk," He had crouched down to my height, holding out some for me to touch, "It must be true and pure, marred by no imperfection of suspicion or uneven thread," The fabric was incredibly smooth and I had leaned forward to scrutinize the weave, "Each thread is taken and woven to create colors and patterns, truly a difficult task, no?" I nodded up at him, fully attentive, "But if one thread breaks, it takes not much else to rip everything apart," And my father tore off a scrap, much to the merchant's chagrin.

I wouldn't truly understand his metaphor of trust until later.

My mother did not fall terribly ill until a few weeks after my ninth birthday. While I had grown a little taller, my hair a little longer, Ummi grew sicker. I retained some of my softness, the babyish curve in my cheeks refused to leave. The color left Ummi's cheeks and her beautiful creamed coffee skin became ashy. She insisted that it was freezing in the balmy summer, shivering beneath her covers. Day in and day out, I sat with Ummi while Yusra hummed songs from her village, dabbing a wet cloth on my mother's forehead.

"It's so cold," She whispered, teeth chattering, "Aren't you cold, Nazirah?" I would always shake my head _no_ but crawl under the covers all the same. It was hot and uncomfortable and I would sweat a great deal but it made Ummi feel better, so I stayed. Abbi came in as often as he could, but there was trouble in Acre that he needed to attend to. Uncle Tahal came to help Abbi and even Aunt Khaanam arrived, her cold demeanor some what softened.

The fever came quickly and left with my mother.

In the days after her death, my family mourned. I lay in bed crying, refusing everyone but Abbi and Yusra from entering my room. They would speak softly to me and stroke my hair. But when they suggested that I come outside, I dismissed them. I wouldn't eat and I stayed up late into the night and slept well past noon. No matter the jokes Uncle Tahal tried to persuade me with, or Aunt Khaanam's threats, I wouldn't leave my room.

It wasn't until Abbi called on Malik and Kaddar to relieve me from my depression that I smiled again. They had knocked on my door and I numbly told whomever it was to please leave me be. Malik had opened the door with complete disregard for a nine-year-old's orders. In their gray robes, I almost didn't recognize them. Blades were strapped to them, their forearms and hands encased in leather gauntlets. But Kaddar's tentative smile and the disciplined gleam in Malik's eyes gave them away. I had flung myself into their arms, sobbing. How long they sat there holding me, I do not know.

They stayed for weeks, coaxing me to eat and come into the sunlight. They sat with me when Yusra brushed my hair and talked loudly outside the high window in my bathing room; anything to keep me company. Summer faded into fall. Kaddar taught me to ride a horse and they showed me their swords and knives. Although reluctant at first, the boys gave into my pestering and trained me in some basic self-defense. How to make a fist, how to kick with the dorsal of my foot instead of my toes and how to hold a sword even though it was far too heavy for me to use. One night when summer's warmth had particularly faded, as Malik and Kaddar practiced with their short swords, I asked,

"Where have you been?" Malik focused his eyes on me, as if determining whether or not it was a good idea to answer. Kaddar pursed his lips and looked to his brother, waiting to follow his lead,

"Masyaf," The older boy finally said,

"For what?" I persisted,

"To train," Kaddar grinned, eager to share,

"_Kaddar_," Malik hissed but he waved it away. In Masyaf to train… That made some sense to my nine-year-old mind,

"Are you training to be like your father?" I questioned, more curious than I was before, "Is that why you know how to ride a horse and throw a knife and kick without hurting your toes?" Kaddar laughed and amusement tugged lightly at Malik's mouth. They must have been so entertained at my ignorance, for that was always how it was,

"No, not really," Kaddar scrunched his face a little, "It's hard to explain,"

"Can I learn too? Can you take me with you to Masyaf?" I was keen to tag along, for that was always how it was. First to be a boy, then to train as they did for, as I did not learn until years later, the Hashashin. They shook their heads and told me _no_ and distracted me with promises of more lessons the next night.

Ten days after that, Malik turned thirteen. There was a solemn pride to his eyes when he accepted my gift of twenty golden dinars. My father gave him a horse. Kaddar was all smiles and excitement, which confused me somewhat. I knew that birthdays were meant to be celebrated but thirteen was no remarkable age. I asked Kaddar later, when Abbi had Malik distracted by the fine leather saddle. He said to me,

"Now Malik will return to Masyaf for four more years of training," His breath tickled my ear as we tried to keep still behind a curtain,

"And then?"

"And then he will be sent away for another year of training, either here in Jerusalem or in Damascus or Acre,"

"Well, I hope he comes back to Jerusalem," said I, not quite knowing exactly what we were talking about. Kaddar nodded, "And then?" I was getting impatient, "What happens? Will he go back to Masyaf?" He nodded again,

"He will and then he will be a true-" But he caught himself, eyes wide and mouth clamped shut. I narrowed my eyes in suspicion,

"Tell me, Kaddar," He shook his head furiously, so I stamped on his foot, "Tell me!" I insisted as threateningly as I could. Again, he refused, "Kaddar," my voice was low and I thought I sounded dangerous, "If you don't tell me, I will begin to cry," Malik, with age, had learned to deal with tears. Kaddar was not so fortunate. When he didn't reply, I sniffled and turned away, burying my face and my hands. My shoulders shuddered and I hiccupped,

"All right! All right, Nazirah! Don't cry!" Kaddar turned me around, "I'll tell you!" I looked up at him, dry-eyed. He shook his head in disbelief, "You little she-devil," I kicked him in the shin,

"You said you'd tell me!" I accused, jabbing my finger in his chest. He sighed,

"I told you, it's hard to explain," He replied, "Al Mualim said that he would tell us when we were older,"

"Does this mean you'll be leaving too?" I demanded,

"Yes, a week after Malik leaves, someone will come to get me too," and before he could say anything further, Yusra yanked back the curtain,

"There you are!" She exclaimed and dragged us out for Malik's birthday dinner. I chattered with Aarif and Abbi, shamelessly showing off my knowledge of trade and politics. Kaddar stopped me every so often to ask questions ("Why is the merchant Chiragh angry?" "Because no one will buy his lapis lazuli from Damascus," "Why did the price of saffron go down?" "Because there is a surplus,") Malik gave me a small smile, his own approval. He was gone the next morning before I could say goodbye.

The next time I saw Malik, his ring finger was gone.

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